Preventative Measures
by Aegroto Dum Anima
Summary: The little demon's crying. It's fair enough. I'd be crying too if I was in his shoes. Twelve years old is a crappy age to have to die. Pre-series. Outside POV. John and Dean POV added.
1. Chapter 1

Preventative Measures  
Chapter One

Author's Note: Hallo! It's been a long time - but I guess that's what happens when you go to Africa for a year. I'm posting this just for fun... and to see if I can figure out the new formatting on the site. As always, please do drop your reviews: good, bad or ugly.

Story Notes: This is based on the premise that other hunters could have learned about Sam's demon blood long before John - I mean, hey, he was just starting out with the hunting thing. Vague Season 2 spoilers - don't worry, I haven't even see the new season, so can't spoil it. The boys are 16 and 12 here. Told _in medias res. _ Outside POV.

Rating for language and gore.

There's a follow up from John's perspective if anyone's interested.

Summary: The little demon's crying. It's fair enough. I'd be crying too if I was in his shoes. Twelve years old is a crappy age to have to die. Outside POV. Pre-series.

* * *

The little boy's crying. It's fair enough. I'd be crying too if I was in his shoes. Twelve years old is a shitty age to have to die.

But, then, destroying the world and inviting Hell on earth because of the demon blood inside you, would be pretty shitty too. Probably better to die young before you can become the abomination – the devil – you're destined to be. Probably.

The ritual's not too complicated. I think Cal only called me in 'cause he's hoping to get laid when this is all over and cleaned up. Not likely. I'd rather have a go with the demon child's dad… or his brother.

The brother… fuck. The hardest part of this whole thing was trying to deal with him. The son of a bitch knows how to fight. Took down six of our guys – six trained men; not just street punks hired for the day. Kind of scary, actually.

Cal's keeping him here – that old adage about keeping your enemies close. I think he's asking for trouble.

The brother – Dean, the demon calls him Dean – is out cold. He's likely concussed; Marcus decided he rather enjoyed kicking the kid in the skull after Dean was tied down and couldn't fight back anymore. Ass. Cowardly ass.

Cal's moving about the room, setting up equipment for the ritual. Marcus and Jacob are drawing the runes and circles on the floor that should have been done long before we made a move on the demon. This is just time we're wasting that allows something to go wrong.

"Eve."

I turn at the voice behind me, raising a brow as Tyler approaches. Cal's got him babysitting the brother – likely 'cause he's a useless fucker and guarding an unconscious kid is all he's really capable of. If that.

"What?"

"The kid's coming to." Tyler states, drawing all eyes to him. Marcus looks irritated; Cal non-plussed. But the demon... shit, his eyes just went _so_ wide.

Tyler shifts about, "Can you dose him?"

I sigh and roll my eyes. Lucky me being an EMT when not killing demons. I get to be the one to drug this poor kid. Better me than fucking Tyler though.

"Whatever." I brush past him moving down the hall to the back room. He doesn't follow and I'm glad, 'cause that means I won't have to deal with his idiocy; but I'm also nervous since I've seen what this Dean kid is capable of.

I push open the door and stop short. Dammit.

The kid's lying on the concrete floor, ankles lashed together with cord. His arms are wrenched behind him, tied around a cement support pillar in the center of the room.

His eyes follow me as I step in, but I don't feel threatened anymore. Someone's worked him over since he's been here – he took a couple good hits in the fight, sure, but not this.

I can see dark bruising where his T-shirt is rucked up and his face is a mess – blood from where Marcus kicked him, more under his nose and more spilling over his chin from a split lip. What kind of freak gets their jollies beating on a kid after he's tied down?

An innocent kid. A human kid.

I force a long exhale as I move into the room. Dean flinches slightly as I crouch before him and I hold up my hands to show I'm not going to hit him.

"Where's my brother?"

I'm surprised how strong his voice still is. Probably said something that scared Tyler and sent him running out to get me.

"What have done to him?"

This is not going to be fun. "We're doing what needs to be done."

He closes his eyes and shivers – and, yeah, it's fucking cold in here.

"Please don't hurt him."

I'm taken completely aback – I'd expected threats and curses and 'If you touch my brother, I'll kill you.'

"Dean," I wait for him to open his eyes. "It's Dean, right?"

"Yeah." He sounds so young just then.

"Dean, I'm an EMT – a medic. Okay? Let me look at you."

"It doesn't matter," he shakes his head tightly and I know he's hurting bad. "My brother…"

"Your brother is dangerous. He's a threat. More than you can know."

"He's a kid." Dean's voice is aching now instead of strong. "He's just a little kid."

"He isn't. _It_ isn't."

"Please," Dean breathes.

I ignore him, moving to inspect the bruising on his chest. He doesn't resist, but his breath hitches when I probe the contusion.

"Please," he hisses again. "Sammy's a kid. A _child_. He's only twelve years old!"

"I know." I didn't mean to reply. "You have a couple cracked ribs."

"It doesn't matter." He swallows audibly. "My brother..."

"You don't know what your brother is capable of."

"He's a kid. He hasn't even kissed a girl yet. Hasn't drunk a beer."

I shift to get a look at his head, really hoping his skull's not fractured. "I think you're concussed." It would explain why he's pleading instead of threatening.

"Please don't hurt him."

I touch my fingers to his forehead and he jerks sharply. "What?"

"Think…" he gasps. "Gonna puke."

"Fuck." Yeah, very probably a concussion. Fucking Marcus. Poor kid doesn't deserve to be concussed and vomiting all over himself in this hell hole. I look around. "There's nothing for you to puke into."

He wheezes, closing his eyes. "Let me sit up?"

I bite my lip hard – the way he's tied, the only way I'll be able to do that for him, would start with me untying his hands. I ain't that stupid.

"Breathe deep, okay? Get a handle on the nausea. You can win this."

He lets out this sound that's close to a whimper. I'm fuming – just absolutely fucking furious. Stopping a demon I can understand, but doing _this_ to a human! A kid!

"Eve?"

I look over my shoulder at the call, Cal hovering in the doorway.

"You okay? What's taking so long?"

"Which one of your goons worked him over?"

Cal shrugs. "Dose him. We got work to do."

I huff angrily. "He needs help, Cal! You don't do this to a person. You don't do it to a human!"

"His brother's a devil."

"Yeah? Well, that's not this kid's fault!" I stand. "He's concussed! Cracked ribs. And he's fucking freezing. You can't leave him in here like this."

"Dose him and he won't be in pain anymore."

"The drug's dangerous if he has a concussion."

Cal shrugs again, "Risk it."

I seethe. "This isn't what I signed up for." The hurt kid behind me whimpers softly and my heart goes out to him. I gotta help him.

Cal tips his head. "Don't be so fucking, naïve, Eve. The punk's playing you. Trying to get you on his side."

I hesitate. Shit. But, come on. No way. This kid was so strong – no way he'd let himself look so weak if he wasn't in a really bad way.

Or really playing me.

Cal's expression softens. "We'll take him to a hospital when this is over, okay? Then if he's really hurt, he'll be taken care of and if he's not, at least we'll be done here."

"We should at least get him off the floor."

Cal shakes his head. "We'd have to untie his hands. Concussed or not, I ain't riskin' that." He sighs. "You know I'm right."

I let out a breath, "All right. Let's be quick though. The sooner he gets help, the better."

"Sure, Eve."

"_Fuck you!_"

I spin around at the angry hiss. Dean's eyes aren't wide and pleading at all – they're full of fire and hell and fury. Woah. Holy shit.

"If you hurt my brother, I'll rip your fucking throat out! You hear me, cocksucker?"

Holy hell. He played me good. I was going to cut him free.

"I will fucking kill every last one of you!"

Cal raises a brow and I know my jaw's gaping open. "See, Eve?"

"Fuck you both!" Dean starts thrashing against the bonds – I wish he'd stop 'cause it must hurt like an absolute bitch with the cracked ribs.

"I'm going to kill every last one of you mother fuckers!"

Cal sighs, "Will you dose him?"

"Yes. He's going to really hurt himself."

"_I'll rip your fucking heart out!_"

"Sure, kid," Cal crouches before Dean. "Whatever."

"There won't be anywhere you can go that I won't find you! Nowhere where you can hide! You get me?"

Cal's eyes narrow, "I'm doing you a favour, you stupid shit! Your brother is a monster!"

I have the syringe ready – I'd hoped not to need these when Cal asked me to bring them.

"I'm gonna kill _you_ first," Dean hisses. And it's scary 'cause he fucking means it.

I crouch down beside Cal, wincing when Dean struggles harder.

"Can you hold his arm?"

"Don't fucking touch me!"

Cal just snarls, grabbing the kid's arm viciously. He braces Dean with both hands, looking at me.

"Sorry, kid." I prick the needle through his skin, pressing in the drug in one quick move in case he manages to jerk away.

"Fuck!" Dean bucks. "Fuck, I'll _kill_ you!"

Cal keeps a hold on him and I watch as the drug takes effect. The strain in his muscles eases off first, then his eyes start to droop. He drops bonelessly, a last whisper escaping lax lips. "Sammy…"

Cal leans back, "Pain in the ass, this fucking kid."

"Your guys shouldn't have pounded him," I stand, moving back.

"He pounded them," Cal dismisses.

"When they could defend themselves. It's different, Cal! You know that. This kid isn't a demon."

He gestures the door. "We have work to do. You wanna get this one to a hospital so bad, let's go get it done."

I scowl, but still follow him down the hallway. Tyler's waiting there and Cal sends him back in to babysit. At least the idiot won't be part of the ritual.

Jacob and Marcus have finished getting things ready. The demon's hog tied in the center of a large pentagram. I swear he looks even younger than he did before.

The little boy – it's the guise of a devil, I know – is bawling his guts out now. Deep, wrenching sobs that are shuddering out in gasps and hiccups.

What the hell kind of name is 'Sammy' for something that's supposed to destroy us all?

"Eve?"

I accept the bowl Jacob hands me and take a breath. Here we go.

Walking into the circle and across the pentagram, I crouch over the boy – the _demon._ Come on, Eve.

He heaves a hiccupping sob, "Is Dean dead?"

I'm so thrown I almost drop the bowl. "What?"

"He's dead?"

"No," I can't help but offer this small comfort. The little boy's eyes are just so huge, so… desperate. "He'll be okay."

Some of the wrenching weeping abates. The little boy's still crying, but he's breathing again.

I dab my finger into the dark liquid in the bowl, quickly painting a rune onto the demon's forehead. Nothing really happens – I'd kind of expected it to sizzle and steam. The demon – demon? – just snuffles and weeps fresh tears.

I move back, leaving the pentagram and ensure I'm out of the circle as well.

Cal starts reading something out of an old text. There's a loud _snap_ and the lights go out. I jump – why the fuck are the lights out?

I look to Cal, who's looking to Jacob. Marcus is holding the long knife he needs for the ritual and with only a few flickering candles lighting the room, he looks scary as hell.

What's really scary, though, is that the little boy's stopped crying.

A demon couldn't do anything from inside that pentagram! We've used it before!

Shaking it off, Cal starts reading again. My thoughts are racing and I'm going to miss my queue, but, _fuck_ why did the lights go out? That boy, demon, whatever, didn't do it! And if he didn't…

Something else.

_Blam!_

The shot is so loud I swear it exploded the whole fucking room. Marcus is blown away – goes flying back in a spray of blood.

The second shot is so close after the first that it could have been the same fucking one, except that Cal's head erupts into a greasy smear of gore – and for some reason all I can focus on is the tomb falling from dead hands.

I finally get it together enough to scream, dropping to the ground and covering my head.

Tyler comes running out from the back. And he's just in time to have his guts explode into a pulpy mess. Something slurps as he drops and I do _not_ want to know what it was.

Jacob's shouting; firing crazed with a pistol. He has no idea what he's shooting at, just fucking shooting. I can't believe he hasn't hit me. Hasn't hit the little boy… though maybe that demon kid is what he should have aimed for.

I shout; cowering as another blast rips Jacob's throat apart. Blood goes fucking everywhere – just like the fucking movies! No way this shit is real!

I think maybe I'm crying now. Just hunkering on the floor, arms over my head as if that's going to make any difference what-so-fucking-ever.

There's glass crunching. Sounds like footsteps.

Oh shit! Oh fuck! Fuck!

"Sammy?" A deep voice, gruff. Pissed and terrified at the same time.

Sammy is the little demon. Sammy is Dean's brother.

"Sammy?"

"Dad!"

Sammy is the son of the man who just killed everyone. Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck!

The boy lets out this sort of relieved, aching, desperate sob. He must be getting cut free. And his young, little boy voice is absolutely condemning when he states, "There's one more, Dad."

I cower. And I am sobbing now. More glass crunches as those footsteps come straight at me.

I scream as a brutal hand grabs me, hauling me off the floor and flinging me against the wall. "No! Please!" I sob, holding my hands out as a sawed off levels at my face. I don't want to be an ink blot on the wall.

"Where's my son?" The man demands.

I can barely see him past the double barrel at my eyes. "I'll… I'll take you!" I'm definitely sobbing now. I'm so scared I can't think. What the fuck am I doing here? I just want to be an EMT! I just want to go home!

"There anyone else here?"

"No!" I whimper. "No."

"I find out you lied and I kill you."

I nod shakily, believing him absolutely,

"Take me to my son." The man orders, and the gun doesn't waver an inch. "Try anything and I end you."

"Okay!" I gasp. "Okay! Please. Please!"

"Move!"

I scramble toward the hall, then suddenly freeze up in case it looks like I'm trying to get away. I am so not cut out for this line of work.

The man's determined steps are right behind me… and I can hear little boy footfalls behind him, Sammy following.

I pause at the door at the end of the hall, scared shitless to open it, just as scared not to. This guy is not going to be happy.

"Hurry up."

I snap to it, fumbling the knob open, Tyler having left the door unlocked in his haste.

I'm prodded through the doorway first, but the only thing waiting in there is an unconscious kid, hurt and probably shivering.

There's an emergency light burning in one corner of the ceiling. Its glow is garish and everything just looks horrible.

"Dean." The man's voice is horrifying. He whirls on me and I just shake. "Get against the wall. Don't move."

I don't even think not to do it. I go where he wants me to, then just stand there, crying and petrified.

Somehow it's even scarier when the man puts the huge fucking shotgun into the little boy's hands. "Shoot her if she moves."

And the little boy holds that gigantic gun like a fucking pro… And I have no doubt at all he'd pull the trigger. I whimper.

The man moves quickly to Dean, slicing through the cable ties, with a wicked blade. He rolls the kid with so much care and concern that it's hard to believe he's the same guy who just blew away four people.

"Dean?" he brushes the kid's face, cataloguing the blood almost professionally.

"He's…" I have to say something. Fuck, I'm a medic. "He's okay…"

The man turns a glare on me so dark I want to combust. "What did you give him?"

"A sedative," I admit. "Intravenous. Nervoplex. It's new. Two cc's." The man gives me this furious look and I stammer on frantically. "It's safe! He's okay! We use it sometimes with our patients at work. He's okay! It'll wear off!"

The man turns back to his son and he seems to know what he's doing, but… "I'm an EMT." He glances toward me but little Sammy sure doesn't lower the gun. "Let me help you. He has cracked ribs on the right side. Possible concussion. I didn't have time to check for a skull fracture, but I should."

"You aren't going to touch my son again."

I'm trembling. This guy is going to kill me. Shit, I can't even really blame him…

"Please!" I am so not above begging.

"Sammy come over here."

The little boy backs toward his father, keeping the gun on me the whole time. The man stands and takes the shotgun from arms way too little to be holding it so expertly.

Released from that responsibility, the boy immediately drops beside his brother, easing Dean's head into his lap. His father draws a pistol, handing it to the tiny child. "Stay here a minute."

"Yes, Dad."

The man looks at me, gesturing with the sawed off. "Move."

I let myself be herded back to the front room. I know he can see that I'm shaking but I so don't care about pride right now. "Your son, Dean… Cal's guys gave him a beating after they'd got him tied down. I tried to get him to a hospital."

"Before or after you drugged him?" Zero mercy; zero pity in that tone.

"I drugged him so he wouldn't hurt himself! He was struggling so hard and with the cracked ribs…" I'm crying again. Bits of Tyler are smeared in the doorway, mixing with bits of Marcus.

"What were you doing in here? What ritual?"

"It's… it's to bind a demon."

"Bind a demon?"

"Into its corporeal form. To… to kill it."

"You thought my boy was possessed?"

"No." I don't know where I get the courage from, but I actually turn to face him. "Your _boy_ is a _demon_."

The man's eyes narrow. "You're fucking insane."

"I'm not. He's evil and he's a threat. And I'm so very sorry that it's true."

"You'll come after him again," the man seems to be telling himself, stating it as fact, not asking.

"No."

He smiles, but it's predatory. And I just know. He can't let it happen – can't risk that I'll come after little Sammy. And I'll never convince him that I'm not a threat.

Because I am.

I don't hear the blast. I don't feel the shot. But I _know_ that bits are me are smeared in and mixing with those bits of the others; that I'm that ink blot on the wall.


	2. Chapter 2

Preventative Measures  
Chapter Two

Author's Note: Well, this story hasn't exactly been enthusiastically received, but the second chapter was already written and I really just want to see if I can figure out to post it with the web page's new format. Still love all reviews: good, bad or ugly.

John's POV. 3rd person. Rating still for language and gore.  
There's a companion in Dean's perspective, but only if anyone cares.

Summary: The little demon's crying. It's fair enough. I'd be crying too if I was in his shoes. Twelve years old is a crappy age to have to die. Pre-series.

* * *

It was dark – it was always fucking dark. John spent so much of his life creeping around after nightfall, and so much time sleeping off the exhaustion of a hunt during the day that he wondered sometimes if he'd forget what sunlight looked like.

He studied the house from just enough of a distance not to be noticed. It was a normal house – they were always normal houses. Normal houses in flashy new suburbs, normal houses in bad neighbourhoods, normal houses out in the country. This house was in the middle of nowhere and John was glad; it was gonna be loud.

Most days – nights? – he hated the normalcy; wished there'd be some big, flashy warning screaming 'evil shit is going on here!' It could be color coded: maybe purple for hauntings, orange for poltergeists, yellow for witches. Maybe neon fucking green for sick fucks that had kidnapped his children.

The house was one storey – that was good, fewer places for the cock-bags to be hiding. John hadn't had time to get the blueprints, but he could mostly guess the layout from looking. Big front room, hallway leading into the house with rooms in the back.

And his children somewhere inside.

John parked a fair distance from the house, cutting back toward it on foot. He was a one man fucking ambush and was armed to the teeth. And for once it was all conventional weapons – this time the 'evil' was human.

The thought pissed him off. Demons, spirits, monsters in the dark… that shit he understood. Random, unpredictable evil that just came and tore you to shreds… yeah, he got that. But _people_… He didn't get people at all.

The thought churned his gut as well. John had never killed a man outside of 'Nam. Had never intended to. But he would kill for his children. No question, no hesitation, no regret. Any man – hunter, soldier or a fucking banker – who wouldn't… wasn't a father. Period.

But he was scared too – 'cause these _people_ had somehow bested his kids and it wasn't just a father's bias that told him such wouldn't be easy.

Sammy was only twelve years old, but could handle himself. Had been training too long with his brother and dad not to be able to. And Dean…

Fuck. John wouldn't really want to have to go against his son in a no holds barred actual fight to the death. It was at the point where John wasn't really sure of his odds on winning that one any more. And he was damn proud.

So, if these _people_ had bested him, taken him, taken _Sam _from him_…_

Their crappy little townhouse was absolutely destroyed. His boys had definitely fought, and fought hard.

Dean had, at least, been conscious when they'd dragged him away. John had been following little clues left – little hints no one else could have followed. Clues he couldn't have followed if he didn't know his son so damn well.

Little hints that had led him to this ridiculously normal house that should have just been fucking screaming in neon green.

John ghosted across the grass. There was truck and a suburban parked outside and he memorized the plates habitually.

He dropped his crouch even lower, moving silently toward the front window.

He held a sawed off in one hand, primed and ready. He had two pistols in shoulder holsters and another in the back of his jeans. He carried three knives and as much ammo as he could cram into his pockets. The one man fucking ambush these bastards were going to regret having messed with.

A curtain was drawn over the glass. Annoying – too bad these assholes couldn't have been stupid enough to leave the window fully open.

John slid his smallest knife from his ankle, carefully easing the blade through to turn the catch on the window's lock. Silently, he tugged the window up a fraction of an inch, using the thin blade to pull the drape aside just enough to let him peek in, sure the tiny movement would go unnoticed inside.

The hunter glowered. Two men were moving about through the room, drawing some kind of devil's trap on the floor. John couldn't identify the exact design, but it was similar enough to the ones Singer had shown him to recognize it for what it was. A third guy was lighting candles and messing around with some shit in bowls.

Were these people stupid enough to be trying to summon a demon? If they were, what the fuck did they want John's kids for?

His kids. And that was the one place in the room he was purposefully avoiding looking for too long. Sammy was on lying on his side near one wall, hog-tied and crying in fear and rage. John couldn't look at that or he'd go bursting in, guns blazing right then… and probably get them all killed.

Dean wasn't there. John didn't let himself wonder or worry if he'd already been killed. That kind of luxury had to wait.

The guy who'd been messing with the candles stood, cracking his neck. "Done?"

"Done," one of the other guys answered. And John decided this guy was the one he was going to kill first, the man brutally and gleefully dragging the little boy into the middle of the devil's trap.

John was going to need a distraction. He needed to take out three of them before they got a bead on his position.

"I'll get Eve."

Correction – he needed to take out four.

John moved silently away from the window – away from the sound of his little boy's sobs. It took him a few minutes to find the fuse box, and precious moments longer to jimmy it open. He'd just cut everything.

The hunter looked toward the window from where he was standing, guessing how long it would take him to get into position.

He went back to the window, counting. Two seconds to the window. Another two to get the rifle up. The fucking curtain was going to be in the way. The first shot would be blind…

John looked through the gap again. The men had taken up positions around the circle. They'd be staying in place – good. John memorized the stance and location of the fucker that'd dragged Sammy across the floor. The guy was holding a knife now – he was John's first mark for sure.

A woman was crouching over Sam, smearing some that shit from the bowls onto his forehead. As soon as she stood and moved away, John moved too.

Quickly, he bolted back to the fuse box, ripping his K-Bar through everything inside, delighting when the house fell into darkness.

1.8 seconds to the window this time. 1.4 to have the shotgun up and ready.

_Blam!_

He didn't really hear the shot; though it was so loud it seemed to shred the room. John didn't even wait for the slug to slam home – he knew his aim was true, knew the guy was down. The curtain was gone and he had the second shot off even as the first guy was still dropping. He didn't blink as the second guy's head splattered all over the rug.

John swung the rifle sharply at movement. Some guy came running out from the back and the hunter didn't bother to assess whether he was a threat – they were all threats – and the buckshot hit center mass.

He ducked on instinct as shots started blasting out from within the room.

The last guy was going nuts with a pistol – hadn't bothered trying to figure out where the attack was coming from. Was just shooting.

Pissed now, 'cause so help this ass if one of those bullets clipped Sammy, John rose in one motion and fired, ripping the guy's throat apart and ending the crazed shots.

For an instant, everything was really still.

John climbed cautiously through the shattered window pane, boots crunching on broken glass. He kept a wary eye – he'd hit four targets, but that didn't mean there weren't more lurking in the shadows.

"Sammy?" He moved toward the center of the circle, hating the flickering light of the candles screwing with his night vision. "Sammy?"

"Dad!" And that cry was a fucking symphony, the most beautiful fucking music John had ever heard.

He dropped beside his boy, still cautious, still on guard, slicing through the ropes that held him with a furious disgust that made him want to kill everyone all over again. He couldn't tell if that desired swelled or abated when Sammy let out an aching, relieved little sob.

John braced the boy's shoulder and didn't have to ask if he was okay, didn't have to say he'd been worried or that he loved him, because Sam's wide eyes were saying everything back louder than words or rifle fire. _I'm okay. I'm so glad you're here. Fuck. Shit. Fuck! I love you, Dad._

And his young voice spoke fucking volumes with one phrase: "There's one more, Dad."

John had the shotgun back up in an instant. Sam made a brief gesture toward the sofa and John stood, knowing his boy would stay behind him

Glass crunched, grinding into blood-stained carpet. He could worry about whatever shit had been going on this room later – there was still a threat and he still had one man AWOL in his little unit and that was just fucking unacceptable.

John glowered, the woman he'd seen now cowering on the floor, hands over her head. He grabbed her pitilessly, hauling her off the floor and shoving her at the wall, ignoring the scream and the tears.

"No! Please!" she begged.

John kept the sawed off levelled. Every time. Every fucking time someone who'd been willing to murder only moments before would beg, somehow thinking they deserved forgiveness… or deserved life more than the person they were going to steal it from. How many assholes had he seen pleading with the enraged spirits of people they'd killed?

"Where's my son?" he demanded, voice so cold his teeth hurt. Sam didn't know or Sam would have told him.

"I'll… I'll take you!" she sobbed.

John really hoped she wasn't daft enough to think those tears would garner her a father's pity when she'd been helping to harm his children. "There anyone else here?" No surprises.

"No!" She was too fucking desperate to be lying. "No."

"I find out you lied and I kill you." John gestured with the gun. "Take me to my son. Try anything and I end you."

"Okay!" she sputtered. "Okay! Please. Please!"

John really didn't have the time or the patience. His boy was still missing. Could still be hurt. Could still be dying. "Move!"

He followed as she scrambled for the hall, keeping Sam behind him, but close. The doors leading off were shut, John too aware that someone, something, anything could come bursting out.

The woman paused at the last door, just kind of looking at it and trembling. John's hand tensed on the rifle – was someone in there? Waiting to attack? Was this bitch giving whoever it was more time to get ready?

"Hurry up."

She jumped, fumbling with the knob and pushing the door open. John tensed even more when the door wasn't locked. Fuck. Shit. If this was a trap, it was a crappy one… but it only had to be good enough.

He prodded her through first – if a shot was coming maybe she'd take it instead of him. At least Sam was still a couple steps back – maybe he'd have time to run if his father got gunned down in this fucking normal house.

An emergency light burned from the ceiling and it made him nervous. An assault could be prepared in there, launched before his eyes could adjust properly.

The woman was short enough that he could see over her shoulder. The room was empty except for… Shit.

John pushed in fast after his hesitation. His boy was perfectly still; lying on the fucking concrete, face a mess of blood and bruises. "Dean." _Get it together, John! Buck up, Marine!_ He whirled on the woman, glad she flinched, "Get against the wall. Don't move."

He had to check his son properly, couldn't do that if the threat wasn't covered. Sam came right over to him, seeming to know, to understand fully. Nodding, John placed the gun into Sam's hands, the boy holding it expertly, because he _was_ a fucking expert with it. John wouldn't have done it if he really though the bitch would try anything, but he knew Sam has this one covered for his brother's sake. He didn't want the kid to shoot, but knew he would if he had too. John _really_ hoped he wouldn't have to.

"Shoot her if she moves."

He ignored the crying and the whimpering, moving to his eldest. He wanted to just freak right out, but didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't.

John sliced through the cable ties. His hands were steady, but everything inside of him was shaking with fear and fury. He checked quickly for a pulse, not realizing he hadn't expected to find one until it beat surely beneath his fingers and he was blinded with relief.

Carefully, he rolled his boy onto his back, hating how cold Dean was, though he didn't shiver.

"Dean?" He prompted, brushing his fingers through the blood on his kid's face, cataloguing the gash across his forehead, bloody nose and split lip. He wasn't unconscious from any of these injuries. Maybe the head wound at his temple, but the blood was dry, it was too old. He'd have come to by then.

"He's…" The woman's weepy voice was probably the last thing in the world he wanted to hear just then; especially if she was going to plead. "He's okay…"

John turned a seething glare onto her. His son was out cold and freezing and his little brother had come a shade shy of being murdered in the next room and she was going to _dare_ tell him Dean was _okay_?

"What did you give him?"

"A sedative," she admits quickly. "Intravenous. Nervoplex. It's new. Two cc's. It's safe!"

John glared. That had to be the stupidest thing she could have said. As if drugging his son with something 'safe' made it all right. Made it even marginally forgivable.

"He's okay!"

John did not want her to ever say that again.

"We use it sometimes with our patients at work. He's okay! It'll wear off!"

John turned back to his son, almost angry enough he couldn't feel his fear. He had no idea what 'Nervoplex' was. Hell, it sounded like something out of a low budget sci-fi flick. He had no idea what it might do his boy even if this murdering woman was saying it would just 'wear off.'

He checked Dean's breathing. Checked his pupils. Checked his pulse. Checked them all again just to try and make sure whatever this fucking drug was hadn't really fucked up his son.

"I'm an EMT."

He glanced back at the woman briefly. Sam hadn't once so much as twitched with the shotgun and John was so damn proud it burned.

"Let me help you." She begged. "He has cracked ribs on the right side. Possible concussion. I didn't have time to check for a skull fracture, but I should."

The fact that she knew these things, and his boy was still lying on a fucking concrete floor without a jacket when it was this damned cold…

"You aren't going to touch my son again." And his tone actually made John himself shiver. He figured Sam was probably the only one not frightened by it – to Sam it was all love and protection.

"Please!" the woman begged, desperate and frantic and pathetic. And maybe if she'd been any of those things while smearing Sammy with something dark and unholy during their fucking murderous ritual less than twenty minutes earlier…

"Sammy, come over here."

Sam backed toward his father deliberately, keeping the gun on his target, never letting his eyes leave the woman – just like he'd been taught, just like he'd practiced.

John stood and took the rifle, giving Sam's wrist a quick squeeze to let him know he'd done a bloody excellent job; that John was proud and that he was dismissed.

Sam dropped beside his brother right away, still scared, but trusting his father. Tenderly, he eased the older boy's head into his lap, silently willing him to wake.

He glanced up as John held out a pistol to him. Sam took it gratefully, glad for its sure weight when he was this scared and there could still be so much danger; glad it wasn't the giant shotgun that hurt his shoulder so bad when he practiced with it.

"Stay here a minute."

And Sam knew that also meant: Be careful, stay alert, watch your brother while I can't.

"Yes, Dad," because he would do absolutely that.

John nodded once, knowing he was understood. He turned back to the woman – the last of the _people_ that had harmed his family, had threatened his _kids_, had sought to murder his _child_.

"Move."

He herded her back to the front room. She was shaking visibly and John struggled not to let it get to him. He wasn't a killer. He wasn't… Wasn't…

"Your son, Dean…"

John's finger tensed on the trigger, Dean's lax, bloody face besting that internal battle.

"Cal's guys gave him a beating after they'd got him tied down."

Ah. That made sense then. But what kind of sick fucking freak beat on a kid when he was tied up?

"I tried to get him to a hospital."

John knew she was trying to save her skin, trying to get him to think she'd been on his side. But he'd _seen_ her participating in Sam's attempted murder. _Knew_ she'd pumped some poison into Dean and left him. "Before or after you drugged him?"

"I drugged him so he wouldn't hurt himself!" she sounded almost hysterical. "He was struggling so hard and with cracked ribs…"

All John could think about was his first born child, with cracked ribs having to struggle and fight and hurt himself trying to save his baby brother.

"What were you doing in here?" There was blood all over the place, but John really didn't care. "What ritual?" He'd show Singer the circles and runes anyway, but motives needed to be established. If nothing else he needed to know why _people_ would come after his boys.

"It's… it's to bind a demon."

Yeah, that made sense. As much sense as fish flying or cows shitting daisies. "Bind a demon?"

"Into its corporeal form. To… to kill it."

And, really, she just admitted that she was going to kill Sammy. Not exorcise him – that he could have maybe understood; if they'd just fucked up and thought his kid was possessed. But, nope. They were going to kill him.

He wanted to double check… John wasn't a killer. "You thought my boy was possessed?"

"No." She turned to face the hunter and John had to admit he was kind of impressed that she'd summoned up the balls to do it – to make him look her in the eye if he was going to shoot.

Her voice was low when she hissed, "Your _boy_ is a _demon._"

"You're fucking insane." He didn't even have to think about that.

"I'm not. He's evil and he's a threat."

John almost – _almost_ – wanted to laugh at that. Sammy wasn't even a threat to ducks on a pond; he'd miss purposefully, aim usually excellent. But this whole mess was way too serious for laughter.

"And I'm so very sorry that it's true."

John realized the woman meant that. She _was_ sorry. But not for what she was going to have done. "You'll come after him again."

"No."

John smiled mirthlessly, knowing beyond doubt the woman was lying. She believed in this fucked up crazy conviction. Maybe she was sorry, but she believed.

She _would_ come after his boys again. Wouldn't come alone. And maybe next time John wouldn't get there in time.

That couldn't happen.

He wouldn't let it.

Any man – hunter, soldier or a fucking banker – who said he wouldn't kill for his children, wasn't a father.

The shot was loud and it was messy, but it was quick. John paused for only a single beat, before turning quickly and hurrying back to his boys.


	3. Chapter 3

Preventative Measures  
Chapter Three

Author's Note: Well, here's the third part. Why not? Please do leave your reviews; good, bad or ugly!

Dean's POV. 3rd person. Rating for language – Dean has a filthy mouth.

Summary: The little demon's crying. It's fair enough. I'd be crying too if I was in his shoes. Twelve years old is a crappy age to have to die. Pre-series.

* * *

He came to fast and hard and abruptly, the world immediately snapping from a complete, quiet black to a full on Technicolor, surround sound, IMAX presentation that was just way too much for his pounding skull. Shit – couldn't there have at least been a couple layers of grey to swim through; something to prepare him for consciousness?

"Fuck." It was out of his mouth before he could think to be quiet. He saw some guy look up at him – some scrawny looking little turd; definitely not one of the trained, 'roided up automatons that had jumped them at the townhouse.

Scrawny Shit got up slowly from his chair, creeping a couple steps toward Dean, looking nervous as all hell. Dean stared him down, despite the headache.

They'd moved him.

He and Sammy had been dragged into some crappy looking house out in the boondocks. They were tied up, but still giving it their all – if they were going down, sure as fuck they were going down swinging.

Some redheaded prick had decided that his boot plus Dean's skull equalled good times. The blow had stunned him enough that they were able to haul him into the hallway without a struggle. He'd sincerely hoped he'd bled on their carpet and that the stains would never come out.

Something was going on in the front room. He could hear Sam in there – shouting, fighting, crying. Dean was beyond pissed. Managed to holler out a few threats he'd absolutely make good on before Carrot Top and some buddy of his with a buzz cut had laid into him.

What kind of pussy do you have to be to beat on someone who's tied up? Someone who can't fucking move?

At some point his head had exploded and he'd lost consciousness. They'd moved him after that. He was on a concrete floor in some room somewhere. His hands were lashed around some kind of support pillar at a really awkward angle. His shoulders already hurt like hell.

Right… 'cause the rest of him didn't.

Scrawny Shit was watching him. Dean made a point of spitting blood onto the floor.

Where the hell was Sam? What the fuck did these freaks want? What the hell were they doing? What the shit was going on? _Where the fuck was Sam?_

He cleared his throat, gagging a little on the taste of blood. He wasn't even going to bother trying to catalogue what was wrong with him – he'd been beaten to shit, he hurt, he was bleeding but obviously not bleeding out.

Sam was missing. His little brother could be hurt!

And he was tied to a fucking post and, really, couldn't do _fucking anything_! Shit! Shit! He'd fucked up so bad. Sammy!

_You have to keep it together, Dean_.

Scrawny Shit came a little closer and Dean hissed, "If you hurt my brother, I'll rip your heart out of your chest, you fucking little cunt."

The guy looked so startled, Dean almost wanted to laugh, almost wanted to apologize for using such coarse language. Instead he yanked the ties on his hands hard, snarling, "You'll be a dead fucking mess before you hit the floor."

"Holy shit," Scrawny Shit stumbled back a couple steps, then turned quickly for the door.

Dean let his temple rest against the concrete after the guy scrambled out of the room. Crap, his head hurt.

They were so screwed. Dean was about as useful right then as skis on a turtle. He was fucked if he couldn't get free. Sam was fucked…

Shit. Shit.

They were _so_ screwed. He had no idea what these people wanted. He hadn't been able to stop them from taking him and Sam. All he'd managed was to leave a few shitty assed clues for their father – and, Dean had already admitted to himself that they were way too crap-tastic for John to be able to follow.

And, damn, it was cold in there. His fingers were already starting to go numb. He wished to shit he'd been wearing a jacket when they'd grabbed him – but shirtsleeves had been fine in the townhouse.

The townhouse… The place was completely destroyed. If nothing else John would see that and know something was seriously messed up.

But then what?

Damn his head hurt…

He twisted his hands vainly against the cable ties – because he had to do _something. _Dammit! Dammit!

Sam… Shit! What if these freaks hurt Sammy? What if they _killed_ him? Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!

The door clicked open and his eyes snapped up toward it. Scrawny Shit wasn't back. Some woman was standing at the threshold, and her expression was all shock and disgust.

Dean swallowed. Oh man... Maybe this was his chance. He was pretty good at winning over chicks – if he could charm this one; get her to think he wasn't dangerous or get her to pity him… or just fucking _anything_ that would get her cut his hands free…

Fuck. Maybe he could still do something. Still help Sam.

He swallowed again, schooling his expression to look as pathetic as possible. A lost, kicked little puppy.

The woman let her breath out heavily as she came into the room. Dean made a point of flinching – of looking terrified though he was seething – when she crouched before him.

She held up her hands as if to show she wasn't a threat – wouldn't hurt him. Dean cowered a little bit, despite wanting to attack.

"Where's my brother?" He asked because there was no other possible thing for him to say. No force on hell or on earth could have had him ask anything else. "What have you done to him?"

Her expression was still pitying, but her tone was cold, "We're doing what needs to be done."

Dean closed his eyes, making himself shiver. He made a point of looking defeated, but all he could focus on was the tense of her words. 'We're _doing_ what _needs_ to be done.' Not: 'We _did_ what _needed_ to be done.' Present tense. They hadn't done whatever it was yet. Sam was still alive. Dean could still help him. Could still diffuse this incredible cluster fuck that his screw up's had allowed.

He made his voice as small as that of a timid little mouse that'd been caught in too many mousetraps. "Please don't hurt him."

"Dean."

He opened his eyes, making sure he made them as wide and as scared as he could get them to look.

"It's Dean, right?"

And he tricked his tone into matching the act his eyes were putting on, "Yeah."

"Dean, I'm an EMT – a medic. Okay? Let me look at you."

Well, fuck me and call me 'girlie.' He hadn't expected a doctor. Probably just coincidence – no way did Carrot Top and Buzz Cut call for medical aid.

"It doesn't matter," Dean shook his head tightly, kind of wishing he hadn't when his skull throbbed – but he let that pain shine through on his countenance, using it. "My brother…"

"Your brother is dangerous." And the bitch was all conviction and fucked up belief. "He's a threat. More than you can know."

Yeah. Right. Sammy's a threat. Maybe to chocolate chip cookies. "He's a kid." And Dean had to fight himself hard to keep from snapping. "He's just a little kid."

"He isn't. _It_ isn't."

Well… what the fuck was that supposed to mean? Fucking bitch and her fucking freak friends! He was getting pissed now, couldn't help it. But his voice was still just _aching_ when he breathed, "Please."

The woman seemed to ignore him, moving to probe at the contusions on his chest. Dean made his breath hitch, made himself jerk a little in pain. Even if he couldn't convince the bitch about Sam, he might still be able to get her to feel sorry enough for him to cut his hands free.

"Please." Dean gasped, as if breathing was getting hard. "Sammy's a kid. A _child._" 'Cause women love children, right? Maternal instinct? "He's only twelve years old!"

"I know."

Dean latched onto that – she almost sounded regretful. Score! One point for Winchester!

"You have a couple of cracked ribs."

Shitty. But her regret at that revelation was another point for him. "It doesn't matter." He swallowed hard, wanting her to see. "My brother…"

"You don't know what your brother is capable of."

This shit again. Dean wanted to snap that he knew his brother better than fucking anyone, but he just whispered, "He's a kid." He was going to stress that at every turn – you had to feel bad about hurting a _kid_, right? "He hasn't even kissed a girl yet." What else? "Hasn't drunk a beer."

She shifted, trying to ignore him. "I think you're concussed."

Beautiful. Maybe this bitch somehow really didn't give a shit about Sam, but she sure seemed pissed off that Dean had gotten beaten to hell. He could work with that. And if she thought he had a concussion…

"Please don't hurt him."

Dean wasn't concussed – he'd had a concussion before, knew what it felt like and this wasn't it. But he also knew the symptoms, knew how to play it up. Shit – he just needed his hands free!

As soon as her fingers brushed his forehead, he jerked sharply, squeezing his eyes shut and making himself look really, really sick.

"What?"

Hah! She sounded truly concerned. "Think…" he gasped. "Gonna puke."

"There's nothing for you to puke into."

And that sympathy in her voice was exactly what he's been hoping for. He just had to make the request sound innocent – like he was just a hurting kid and not a plotting hunter. "Can I sit up?"

She hesitated, thinking it through. "Breathe deep, okay? Get a handle on the nausea. You can win this."

Crap! Shitshitshit! He whimpered pitiably – a last ditch attempt to get her to stop thinking and just _help_ him by freeing his hands.

"Eve."

And now he was screwed.

"You okay? What's taking so long?"

Dean looked up at the man that entered. The guy had longer hair – hippy hair. Dean remembered him from when they'd first been dragged in. Hippy Guy seemed to be the asshole in charge of this thing.

"Which one of your goons worked him over?"

It almost sweet the way the bitch was still trying to stand up for him. But Dean didn't give a shit anymore. With the guy there, there was no way his hands were getting cut free.

Hippy Guy shrugged. "Dose Him. We got work to do."

'Dose him'? Dean really didn't like the sound of that. He twisted his hands again, only succeeding in forcing the cable ties to slice deeper into his wrists.

"He needs help, Cal!" Let them argue. "You don't do this to a person. You don't do it to a human!"

What the fuck was wrong with these people? Sam was a person!

"His brother's a devil."

Okay… apparently these fucking freaks didn't realize Sam was a person! What kind of fucked up, screwed in the head a-hole did you have to be to get _that_ wrong?

"Yeah? Well that's not this kid's fault! He's concussed! Cracked ribs. And he's fucking freezing. You can't leave him in here like this."

Cool. Fine. Let the bitch fight for him. If she won this, maybe he_ would_ get cut free. He'd only need a _second…_

"Dose him and he won't be in pain anymore."

Crap. The bitch wasn't going to win. Dean was screwed. Damn, he'd fucked this whole thing up so royally.

There were five people in the house, at least. None of them the six guys that had jumped them at the townhouse. Dean didn't know if those guys were still around… if they were… Damn. Damn! Shit!

"The drug's dangerous if he has a concussion."

Hippy Guy shrugged again. "Risk it."

The woman seemed pissed that he didn't care. "This isn't what I signed up for."

Hell, it probably wouldn't do any good, but Dean let out a soft whimper.

"Don't be so fucking naïve, Eve." The guy hissed. "The punk's playing you. Trying to get you on his side."

And Dean knew the jig was up. Totally. Completely. Irreparably.

He was fucked.

"We'll take him to a hospital when this is over, okay?" Hippy Guy placated. "Then if he's really hurt, he'll be taken care of and if he's not, at least we'll be done here."

"We should at least get him off the floor."

Yeah. Good idea!

"We'd have to untie his hands."

Dean cursed. This fucker had him figured out. Or just wasn't as stupid as he looked.

"Concussed or not, I ain't riskin' that." He sighed, "You know I'm right."

The traitorous bitch let out a resigned breath. "All right. Let's be quick though. The sooner he gets help the better."

"Sure, Eve."

Fucking shit! These mother fuckers were really going to _kill_ his brother! "_Fuck you._" No more games. Dean didn't think he'd ever been quite so furious. The woman looked almost as shocked as Scrawny Shit had. Well, good. Fucking good! "If you hurt my brother, I'll rip your fucking throat out! You hear me, cocksucker?"

Oh yeah. The bitch was stunned. He'd had her convinced. It had all been for nothing, though.

"I will fucking kill every last one of you!" And it was no hollow threat of a desperate kid.

Hippy Guy raised an eyebrow, all coy and smug, "See, Eve?"

Dean wanted nothing more than to wipe that look right off the arrogant bastard's face. He thrashed against the ties, not giving a shit as to how much it hurt his ribs; how the pain nearly stole his breath. "Fuck you both!" Sam! Sammy! He had to get to his brother! "I'm going to kill every last one of you mother fuckers!"

The guy sighed, uncaring where the woman looked scared. "Will you dose him?"

"Yes. He's really going to hurt himself."

Dean did not want to be _dosed._ He'd be out of the game completely. Helpless and defenceless and just lying there like the useless fuck he was proving to be, while something beyond horrible happened in the next room. "_I'll rip your fucking heart out!_"

"Sure, kid." Hippy Guy crouched before him, smug. "Whatever."

"There won't be anywhere you can go that I won't find you! Nowhere where you can hide!" It was an absolute. "You get me?"

"I'm doing you a favour, you stupid shit!"

Yeah-fucking-right.

"Your brother is a monster!"

What the hell kind of bullshit was this? What the fuck was going on?

The bitch had a syringe ready and Dean fought with everything he had. He set his stare on the guy in charge and it was cold enough to shatter steel. And he completely fucking meant it when he hissed, "I'm gonna kill _you_ first."

The woman crouched down beside the guy and she looked compassionate. "Can you hold his arm?"

"Don't fucking touch me!"

But it wasn't like he could move or go anywhere or get away. The guy grabbed him bruisingly, forcing him still.

Fuck! Fuck!

"Sorry, kid."

The needle pricked through his skin, whatever drug it was burning as it was pumped into him.

Oh sweet fucking hell! Sam!

"Fuck!" He thrashed. "Fuck, I'll _kill_ you!"

He didn't want to stop struggling, but felt his legs get heavier and unresponsive. No, no, no!

No, Sammy! His little brother!

He'd promised he'd look out for him! Dammit! He would die for him!

He couldn't feel his body anymore.

He'd fucked up. Sam was going to _die_ and it was his fault. He should have done more. Been better. Been faster. He never should have let them be taken from the townhouse!

He lost himself into a world of quiet, taunting black.

"Sammy…"

_I'm sorry. _

* * *

He came to gradually, swimming up through layers of grey that progressively grew lighter. Everything was a little muddled – the Technicolor enhancement blurred, the surround sound disabled.

He could smell leather. And it was so familiar it almost let him sink back down…

But he could feel the skim of tires over asphalt too. Heard the purr of an engine he knew unmistakably. Hell, he could make out the notes of one of his cassette tapes.

And the grey slipped completely into color when he felt a small hand clutching his; felt a little boy's fingers tenderly carding through his hair. He opened his eyes because _Sammy's_ hand was in his!

"Dad. He's waking up."

_Dad!_ He felt the car swerve hard to the right and stop. Fuck… Sammy and Dad and the Impala. And he was warm and safe and, dammit – dammit! – Sammy was right there, clutching his hand. Wasn't dead, wasn't…

Shit. His brain didn't feel like it was working quite right, but he opened his eyes and saw Sammy looking down at him. Sammy alive and breathing and smiling. And not dead because Dean'd fucked up so bad…

"Dean?"

A hand was on his face – not a child's hand. He let his eyes slide to the side and saw their father leaning awkwardly over the front seat, his calloused palm on Dean's cheek.

"Hey. You with us?"

"Dad."

John smiled. "How you feelin'?"

Feeling? He was feeling… pretty shitty. His whole body hurt… _everything_ hurt. And his brain was… was not working right. "Bitch drugged me."

"I know." John shifted his hand, checking the youth's pulse. "I made some calls. Checked out this drug they used. You'll be fine."

"Sammy…"

"I'm right here, Dean." The boy sounded nervous and when he shifted, Dean realized his head was pillowed in the kid's lap.

Dean squeezed the hand in his. "Hurt?"

"I'm okay."

Thank shit. Shit. Shit.

"Dean." John's voice. Dad's voice. Dad, Dad, Dad. And Sammy.

"M' sorry."

"Dean."

His lashes fluttered, but Dean forced his eyes back open. "Five. At the house."

"Taken care of," John stated.

"Six… more… Took us…"

"I know." John pressed his hand to his son's shoulder. "It's okay. I know you're feelin' groggy. You can go back to sleep, okay? I got this watch."

Dean _really_ wanted to go back to sleep. That sounded like the single _best_ idea he'd _ever_ heard.

"S'mmy?"

"I'm okay." He felt the grip on his hand tighten possessively. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Everything's fine now, Dean." John stated firmly. "My watch."

He wanted to say something else, but he was already slipping. Slipping, slipping... Back through those layers of grey to a peaceful black.

* * *

When he woke, there was no blast of the world suddenly too loud and too bright; nor were their murky shades of grey to struggle through. He just woke up. Like from any night's sleep.

He was lying on their shitty old sofa in the front room of the trashed townhouse. For the first time ever, the ratty couch was the most comfortable piece of furniture in the world.

There was a blanket wrapped around him and it was too warm, really… But he remembered being cold – bone deep, achingly cold and he decided he didn't really mind.

He was alone, but could hear voices from the kitchen. John and Sammy. Sammy was okay.

Dean figured he'd best go join them, say 'howdy,' figure out what the hell had happened. He moved to push himself up and gasped, dropping back and just trying not to scream.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

Right. He remembered now. Remembered the rest. Damn… he hurt everywhere.

"… see if sleeping beauty's coming to the ball."

He turned his head at John's voice, the man stepping into the room and his line of sight.

"Oh, hey." John smiled. "Shit. You're actually awake?"

Dean had to swallow twice before he could speak. "Just now."

"Feelin' like shit, I bet," John quipped perching on the couch beside his son.

"M'okay."

"Uh huh," John smirked. " 'Cause I know I _always_ feel fantastic when I've been drugged, have a splitting headache and three cracked ribs."

Dean grinned. "Yeah, yeah."

"Here." Carefully, John helped ease his boy up to sit, considerately turning to the table and giving Dean a moment to gather himself. "Okay?"

"Peachy."

"Good." John handed the youth a glass and a couple pills. "These're okay to take with that shit they pumped into you. You can have something better once I'm sure it's out of your system."

"All right." Dean took the pills without argument, draining the glass greedily. "We're safe, right?"

"Yeah. Should be. For now, anyway."

Dean nodded. "Bugging out?"

"Sam's packing up the last of the essentials."

"Sam all right? Really?"

"He's shaken," John answered. "But he's not hurt."

"Thank fuck…"

"You're the one in rough shape."

Dean quirked his lips. "Two of those cocksuckers gave me a pounding after I was tied down."

"So I've heard."

He frowned. "What happened? Who were those people?"

John shook his head. "Been trying to piece it all together. What I saw, what Sam's been able to tell me. Trying to get more info from Singer."

"Bobby? What would he know about all this?"

"They had your brother in some kind of devil's trap when I got there. I'm hopin' Singer'll be able to identify it; tell me what exactly it was for."

Dean rubbed a hand down his face. "They seemed to think Sam was… evil. A demon or something."

"Seems so. Weren't plannin' an exorcism either. Didn't figure Sam was possessed."

"Fuckin' nutters. What kind of demon takes its own form?" He shook his head. "How'd you find us?"

"Followed your clues."

"You shittin' me? How? They were crap!"

John shrugged one shoulder. "Were decent enough."

"You're good."

John smirked, "Don't you forget it."

Dean returned the grin then took a long breath, glancing away. "Did you kill them?"

"No choice." John didn't sound at all regretful – just cautious in case his son didn't understand.

"The long-haired guy… You get him first?"

"What? Uh… no… Some guy with red hair and a knife."

"Huh."

"Why?"

"I made a promise. Didn't come through."

John frowned, puzzled. "Dean?"

"I promised that fucker he'd die first." Dean looked up at his father, face set in stone. "He told me he was doin' me a favour by killin' Sammy."

John snorted.

"I'd have killed them all…"

John worried his lip, "Dean…"

"I know." The youth turned away again. "We don't kill _people_. It's different. We aren't killers. We aren't murderers."

John waited; could tell by the way his son's shoulders tensed that he wasn't finished.

"But I _would_ have killed them to save my little brother." Dean looked to his father, eyes sincere. "That wrong?"

John's expression was equally earnest. "I _did _kill them to save my sons. And I _would_ do it again. Is _that_ wrong?"

"No." Dean stated, sounding quite sure of the conviction. "Any man who wouldn't… isn't a father."

John smiled. "Or a big brother."

Dean looked away, his reply quiet. "Or a son."

John squeezed his boy's shoulder. "This is way easier with you than with Sam."

"Huh?"

"Nothin'," John smirked. "We good?"

"Were we not?"

John smiled. "You chill out, okay? I'm gonna help Sam with the last of the packing."

He only let John take two steps, before stopping him, "Hey, Dad?" He waited for the man to turn. "I'm sorry."

John raised a brow. "For?"

"For lettin' them get the upper hand. For letting Sam get taken and for this whole messy cluster fuck. I'm sorry, sir. I should have done something more."

"Are you fucking insane?"

"What?"

"You're fucking insane, Dean." John shook his head. "Sam told me what it took for them to grab you. How many of 'em there were. How hard you both fought. You think this was _your_ fault? Then you're nuts."

Dean looked to the floor.

"Look, just chill out. We need to be getting out of here."

"Yes, sir."

"Sleep if you feel like it. That shit'll still be in your system. I'll wake you when we're ready."

"All right, Dad."

"Right."

"Still your watch?"

"Yeah." John nodded, words soft. "Yeah."


End file.
